for death note fic exchange
by snowmelt
Summary: a gender identity that can only be represented through marilyn manson album covers and black nail polish


what hwt ahtw ha thaw haw hhaw tahwt wH AT WHAT WHAT

* * *

Alone in the library of Wammy's orphanage, with no company save for the constant pounding of rain on the dirtied windows and the dust that drifted lazily across the open expanses of the room, Mello began to wonder, lackadaisically, if he could simply lay there on the floor until he grew old and eventually perished. He knew, of course, that even though he'd locked the door behind him and blocked it with a chair for good measure, someone would eventually come looking for him and demand he emerge from his temporary hiding place, and whether that someone was Matt or Roger did not matter. He couldn't stay here forever. He could not lose himself in the white light flooding through the windows, could not wash away with the rain.

Mello was not prone to escapism. His brain was always filled with thoughts, problems to solve and things to do and people to meet, simply so full of _stuff_ that he couldn't imagine simply lying around with a blank mind. How could he be so idle?

And yet, despite the fire that roared within him, and despite the flames that burned through his thoughts at all times, there he was, splayed on the floor with his hands tangled in the hem of his black shirt.

No, Mello was not the kind of child to run away from his problems. His extremely-motivated-towards-achieving-goals attitude simply could not allow him to be. So why, then, was he just sitting there doing nothing?

The fact of the matter was that Mello was having an identity crisis of sorts. At just fourteen years old, one would think him to be too immature to entertain such a thought, but as everyone who had ever met Mello beforehand knew, he was no ordinary teenager. Mello was practically a genius in every form of the word. He could solve college-level math problems in a matter of seconds and build a computer in a matter of hours. Of course he knew who he was.

Right?

Wrong.

To assume that Mello was completely certain of himself at all times would be ignorant and, more importantly, completely false, which brings us to his apparent avoidance and lack of problem-solving drive: he simply could not figure out what to call himself.

Mello was a boy. That was what had been true for his entire life. _He_ was _male_, _he_ was a _boy_, _he_ would grow up and someday become a _man_. This, however, did not satisfy him, not anymore at least.

Mello did not feel like a boy. He didn't really feel like a girl, either. But then again, sometimes he felt like both, and then sometimes he felt like neither. He no longer wanted to call himself one or the other.

Rolling over onto his stomach and resting his head on his arms, he let out a weary sigh. He normally wasn't a lazy person either, but he _really_ did not feel like figuring this out right then.

Wammy's was not the kind of orphanage to be prejudiced. What with L being the world's top anonymous detective, and the most famous justice figurehead after Superman, there was no room for close-mindedness, and progressivism was encouraged among the blossoming genius children. Mello could be a Martian half-demon with three eyes and a glow in the dark tail and he'd still be welcomed back with open arms.

But what could he call himself, then, if he was neither male nor female?

He'd heard of this type of thing before, through sketchy internet forums and rushed whispers circulating about the orphanage. People who weren't what the doctors told them they were when they were born, people born with the wrong bodies. _Transgender, cisgender, transphobia…_ he thought briefly, searching his brain for the terms he'd seen and heard but couldn't place a meaning to.

But what was a thirteen-nearly-fourteen-year-old genius kid to do about this dysphoria? He could tell Matt, but when he tried to imagine explaining this empty feeling to another person who'd never experienced it before, he knew he'd never be able to, at least not anytime soon.

All he could do now was get up, ignore these thoughts, and pretend nothing was wrong.

* * *

A few weeks later, as Mello approached his fourteenth birthday, L returned to Wammy's without a moment's notice, as usual. He had the quite frankly annoying habit of jumping from place to place without warning anyone. Or at least without warning the children.

This time, however, the trip was different. L always took extra time to speak to Near and Mello in private, in that respective order. Mello always spoke to L after Near; that was just the way it'd always been. When he was younger it had annoyed him, because he didn't like having to wait for his chance to speak to L, but he'd learned over time that it didn't really make a difference either way.

Mello had been splayed out on the couch, idly gazing over Matt's shoulder at some pixelated platform game buzzing on the screen of a hand-held gaming device. His eyes were particularly glazed over when Matt's began complaining about the callouses on his thumbs.

"Mello," called a hollow voice, its sound foreign yet all too familiar. Mello didn't need to see its source to place it, but he turned to look anyways.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out Matt suddenly hollered, "Whatcha' want, you old perv?"

"Coming," Mello said, his voice stern, and he was sure to give Matt a good kick to the shins as he followed L's hunched figure out of the common room.

The walk from the common room to one of the many vacant rooms in the orphanage was not long, but to Mello it seemed to take ages, partially because he had a flare for dramatics and partially because he was ogling L's form from where he trailed along behind him.

They did not stop at any of the available rooms, however, but kept walking, much further than was necessary for a private place to talk.

"So, Mello," he said agonizingly slowly as they approached the bedroom hallway. "Your room or mine?"

"_Excuse me?_"

"We have to have somewhere to chat, don't we?" His bony hands rested somewhat daintily at his hips. "I have been informed through unnamed sources that you have been troubled recently."

Mello scoffed. "Who put you up to this? Was it Roger?"

"And Matt." L blinked, something Mello hadn't seen him do the entire time.

Mello sighed. "Whatever you think is wrong with me, I can handle it on my own. I don't need reassurance."

"My sentiments exactly. However, I do like to be sure my successors are not only healthy but _stable_."

Mello narrowed his eyes.

"Well, not to imply that you are _instable_, per se, but as both Roger and Matt have claimed that you have been acting suspiciously for the past few weeks, it felt best to utilize this visit to have this chat."

"How much cake did they give you?" Mello chuckled. "And how much of it is chocolate?"

L grinned, a small, lopsided tilt of the lips that would've made Mello shiver if he hadn't been expecting it.

"See, I told them you were fine."

* * *

In the frighteningly short amount of time that remained before L's death, he never once referred to Mello as "he."

* * *

It wasn't until Mello had gained Mafia control that he understood who he was.

It hadn't been easy, of course. He'd never spoken about his identity to anyone, knowing all too well what happened to people who were different in that aspect. But he'd researched. He'd met people, talked, fought, done things he was and wasn't proud of, and eventually he knew what to call himself. It wasn't a particularly shocking revelation, either, and he was actually surprised that he hadn't come to it earlier.

He did feel a lot better, as cliché as that sounded, but chasing after Kira took so much out of him that he hardly found peace in the information. In the face of death and destruction, one could not find much peace in anything.

As the world began to fade to black, he could only quietly wonder why, if they were supposed to be geniuses, none of them had ever been very smart.


End file.
